


THE GREATER GOOD ★

by elfroot



Series: Of Pride and Redemption [6]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Childhood Memories, First Crush, Fluff and Angst, Kissing, M/M, Mages vs. Templars, Magic, Misunderstandings, POV Cullen Rutherford, Prince Cullen Rutherford, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-25
Updated: 2018-03-25
Packaged: 2019-04-07 17:48:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14086305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elfroot/pseuds/elfroot
Summary: Prompt: "how about arranged marriage for whatever ridiculous reason, I mean who cares about the details, that’s what makes me cry in my pillow at night. Imagine Cullen, shy and smitten with Dorian, pining and heart all aflutter from a brush of hands - that’s it, that’s my prompt."He’s ten when his younger sister dies. He’s never seen abominations before, but his father spoke of them, many times, desperate mages working at the behest of demons, and they loomed and they struck and she never stood a chance. King Pavus begged for a truce a mere fortnight ago.An obvious ruse, his father scoffs now, ordering his men to remain where they are, where they’ve been for months, stationed in Tevinter and keeping order where there is none. It’s chaos there, and whispers of slaughter often breach the frontier.“What if we’re only making it worse, father?” Cullen asks, and he cups his cheek and itstings, and he clenches his jaw to keep the tears from soaking his face.





	THE GREATER GOOD ★

**Author's Note:**

> an old one i've never actually published here. hope you enjoy <3

Cullen Stanton Rutherford, Prince of Ferelden, seven years old. His father gave him a sword the night before. It’s too heavy for him and it drags sharp and metallic on the floor, loud in his enthusiastic wake. He’ll be a fine warrior, one day. Like his brother, and their father before him. He’ll wield swords and he’ll smash shields and he’ll defend his people against Tevinter, the mages of King Pavus a growing plague on his lands. They’re vile, his father said.  _Dangerous_. They’ve fought against them many times in the past, and another war threatens to divide their nations once more. Cullen doesn’t like wars very much. All he wants is to protect the things that matter, but he knows it can’t be achieved without sacrifices.  _You’ll be a great king if you remember this_ , his father often tells him, and Cullen nods, every time, chin tipped in the sort of pride that is expected of him. A king doesn’t fear, and neither does a warrior, but it’s hard to remember, at night, when darkness finally falls, and it’s harder still when fatigue overtakes him—there could be demons lurking in his chamber. He doesn’t tell anyone that he  _looks_ , every night, in the wardrobe and underneath the bed, and he doesn’t tell anyone that he can never fall asleep until he’s stopped shaking and his heart beats steady again.

\- - -

He’s ten when his younger sister dies. He’s never seen abominations before, but his father spoke of them, many times, desperate mages working at the behest of demons, and they loomed and they struck and she never stood a chance. King Pavus begged for a truce a mere fortnight ago.  _An obvious ruse_ , his father scoffs now, ordering his men to remain where they are, where they’ve been  _for months_ , stationed in Tevinter and keeping order where there is none. It’s chaos there, and whispers of slaughter often breach the frontier.

“What if we’re only making it worse, father?” Cullen asks, and he cups his cheek and it  _stings_ , and he clenches his jaw to keep the tears from soaking his face.

\- - -

He thinks of his sister when the Knight-Commander welcomes him, the youngest recruit to join his father’s army. The sword he was given six years ago doesn’t feel as heavy in his hand, and it doesn’t drag on the floor anymore. There’s pride in his brother’s smile when the blade splits the air, and praise among his peers when he spills blood for the first time.  _Vile. Dangerous_. A mage lies at his feet, their throat slit open—there’s no staff in their hand.

“A fine warrior indeed,” the Knight-Commander hails, and Cullen returns to his quarters, shaking, nausea rolling in his stomach. He doesn’t need to look in the wardrobe, and he doesn’t need to look underneath the bed, because he knows now, as he clutches his head in both hands, that it’s not where demons are.

\- - -

He’s sixteen when he’s wounded on the battlefield. His brother has only just renounced the throne, much to his father’s dismay, and he thinks, as he falls, that he’s nothing more than another disappointment. A lightning bolt ripped his flesh open—blood runs down his flank as he roars and swings his sword again, but there’s another spark flashing before his eyes and he finds himself violently hurled back, multiple feet away from where he stood. He lands on a bed of crushed herbs, and he notes, distantly, the potent scent of deathroot. It’s everywhere, probably seeping into his wound, and he struggles to get up but  _he can’t_.  His vision blurs. There’s a silhouette nearby, poised inbetween trees—a mage, no doubt, cautious and distant in their scrutiny, and he bares his teeth and he writhes and he crawls away, but it doesn’t matter.  _Fasta vass_ , he hears, and they approach, kneeling beside him as he shakes his head, head tilted and stubborn, refusing to cower. Will none of them let a man die in peace? A foreign hand, darker than his own, moves slow and hesitant towards him, and he glowers, cursing and hissing until the mage cups his chin, forcing him to look up.

“If you insist on wriggling like a stranded fish, you’ll die here, and it will not be by my hand.”

He blinks, subdued, squinting for a better view, and he sees in his haze the face of a man, flesh and bone, just like him, a gentle touch to soothe his wound. There’s a smile curling his lips, full and smug and pleasant, and he recognizes him, vaguely, the man who raised corpses on the battlefield—he doesn’t fear him. He should, he knows this, but his chest tightens as he notes the hint of concern in the depth of his eyes, and his arm lifts of its own volition.  _Why_ , he wishes to ask, but he doesn’t ask and he doesn’t speak. His fingers spread instead, light, timid, tips brushing along the man’s jaw, and they stare at each other, long and curious, a coy fascination. His gaze transcends everything Cullen’s been told of his kind, and deep down, he’s always known. He laughs, quiet—the truth overwhelms him—and the man’s touch roughens and  _Maker’s breath_ , it hurts. His savior laughs in turn, a brief chuckle that reaches deep into his gut.

“Save your own, you’ll need it to return home.”

 _Home_. He wouldn’t have made it. Not without him. He wants to thank him, but the clamor of the battle grows closer, prompting the man to look about, wary, nervous. Both mages and warriors are coming, and should the latter find him here beside him…  _May we meet again_ , he mouthes, placing a flask filled with a healing salve in the crook of his palm, and Cullen watches as he leaves, baffled and tired, fingers tight around the vial.

\- - -

A ceasefire has been announced.  _The King’s benevolence_ , or so people claim, but Cullen knows better. The Divine’s grown tired of his bloodthirsty antics and he merely seeks to appease her—he may rule over Ferelden, but  _she_  possesses powers he doesn’t have, and he doesn’t wish to risk her wrath. Too many have died, mages and warriors alike—he’s barely eighteen, and he’s killed a hundred. The sense of guilt that coils in the pit of his stomach will fade in due time—it’s what his brother says, but Cullen knows now that it never will. He received a letter the day before, a missive from House Pavus.  _Dorian_. The man who saved his life. For nearly two years he’s kept the flask on his bedside table, and he remembers his touch, gentle despite their differences, the scar slashing his ribs a constant reminder that good and evil lurk on  _both_  sides of the line.  _Care to wander where our fathers have never gone before_? The invitation causes his mouth to widen and his eyes brighten as he takes hold of a quill, penning words after words with growing warmth in his chest.

 _I thought you’d never ask_.

\- - -

He’s twenty-two when they meet again, Dorian a couple years older. He’s grown taller, broader, not as much as he but stronger nonetheless, and his face is smooth where Cullen’s is rougher, a neatly kept mustache versus a patch of blond, scruffy stubble. He talks.  _A lot._  It’s strange to see him again after years of steady correspondence, and stranger still to converse with him in the presence of their fathers. Diplomacy isn’t their forte. Tempers boil and tension grows, and in the midst of silent animosity, Cullen beams, stealing glances in flustered interest, his palm moist on the back of his neck. There’s a glint in Dorian’s eyes that mirrors his own and he smiles shy and hesitant despite his confidence, a quiet spark that King Pavus doesn’t miss. He glares, and it’s over, but Cullen’s seen and felt enough to know where he belongs.

\- - -

They meet again, formal dinners and diplomatic convocations—if wars are easily prompted, the damages they leave in their devastating wake are much harder to restore. Their fathers still glower at each other, but  _he_  can’t take his eyes off  _him_. He seeks him, everywhere, bumping into walls and finding himself flushed nearly every time Dorian looks back, heart lurching in his chest from the simple brush of their hands. He babbles, burbles, blushes and coughs at the same rhythm as his pulse, and Dorian tells him,  _you’re the only friend I’ve ever had,_  and he shakes his head and he screams  _no, not friends, not friends_ , loud in his skull but silent on his lips. He was never good with words, but he writes rather well, and he decides, in his next letter, to tell him how he feels.  _Could you ever see me as something more_ , and he trembles, waiting for an answer that never comes.

\- - -

He’s twenty-seven when his father dies, and twenty-nine when the Divine orders a marriage he doesn’t want. King Pavus has broken all ceasefires years ago, impulsive, and she wishes for both nations to be united once and for all. He does as well, but not like this, not if it means being wed to a man who surely loathes the very sight of him. He hasn’t seen Dorian in years. He should have known better. Affection between a man and another… it’s the sort of things Tevinter mercilessly condemns, and his breath catches in his throat every time he thinks of him and the friendship they once shared, every time he thinks of what could have been and never will be.  _Because of him_. Dorian barely acknowledges him when they meet for prearrangements, King Pavus never bothering to hide his contempt. Cullen’s older siblings stand by his side, proud and faithful advisors, and they are the reason he doesn’t flinch before him. They have no choice, none of them. The Divine has spoken and he hates himself, for this, for feeling the way he does.  _Sacrifices for the greater good_ , his father often told him, and he’s starting to believe he was wrong all along.

\- - -

The wedding is celebrated on his birthday. The Divine presides the ceremony and he stands anxious beside Dorian, clad in white and gold. He’s radiant, like a king, but he shakes like a boy and he doesn’t know what he’s doing there, a hundred pair of eyes fixed on him. Ferelden has such high expectations of this marriage. Hostility has already lessened towards mages, and Dorian is perceived as an equal, much to his surprise. But he can tell he doesn’t wish to be there. His eyes never cross his own, stubborn and distant.  _Pained_. There was a time, six years ago, when he enjoyed imagining this, he and Dorian, side by side, hand in hand. He remembers the smiles they shared, and he remembers his hold around him before he swept him off his feet. There is no smile  _here_ , and when he leans down to officialize his vows, Dorian’s eyes are already closed, shutting him out.

He walks down the aisle with unsteady steps, and he feels inadequate, young again,  _a child_ , and the urge to wipe unshed tears off his face is nearly unbearable.

\- - -

Peace has finally been achieved. King Pavus hasn’t stopped foaming at the mouth, but mages and warriors alike have found common ground and he has no power any longer. His son is wedded to the King of Ferelden and he does wonders here, accepted as one of them, ancient feuds dissolved. He seems happy, accomplished, but behind closed doors, he never smiles. Cullen rarely ever sees him. He did everything he could to accommodate him, despite the circumstances. He offered him a room, away from his own, spacious and constantly  heated, a wardrobe full of warm clothing. He ordered another library to be built, closer to his quarters. He made it clear from the start that he was free to see whoever he wished and whenever he desired, without repercussions, and Cullen is true to his words, no matter how low his heart sinks when he thinks of Dorian in the arms of another. His sister, Mia, frequently reports his whereabouts, and from them Cullen attempts to guess his wishes, valiantly striving to fulfill them, but it’s not enough, it never is, and he’s on the verge of letting him go. He doesn’t know how, and he doesn’t think of the consequences, but he can’t stand this, Dorian, the man he loves, miserable in foreign lands and unable to stand  _him_.

The flask he once gave him feels heavy in his palm as he walks slow and forlorn down the hall, small aromatic candles burning in mounted sconces to guide his steps. He doesn’t know where he’s going. Dark has fallen and he’s wide awake, tormented, a living nightmare—there’s no sign of life anywhere else but for the soft glow coming from the library’s open doors.  _His_  library. He comes closer, careful, cautious; someone’s in there, sighs and scoffs and pages crinkling, and he peeks in, bringing the flask to his chest as his blood turns cold in his veins.

Dorian.

“Why,” he whispers, and Cullen swallows, hard, noting the trembling of Dorian’s fingers around the parchments he holds, a dozens of letters.  _His letters_.

“Why,” he repeats, louder, and he lifts his head and he frowns and he glowers, and he looks crestfallen. “Why did you stop?”

Cullen inches in, prudent, clearing his throat as Dorian leans tall and still against the wall near the window. He shakes his head, puzzled, his breath wavering.

“Why did I stop…?”

“This!” Dorian hisses, and Cullen’s pulse jumps drastically as the missives flit and flutter to the ground, a pool of memories at his feet. “You stopped writing back the moment I suggested we… the moment I— _ugh_ , nevermind what I suggested. You needed only tell me. You were the only friend I’d ever had, the only man I’ve ever—”

He pauses, just long enough to clench his jaw, and Cullen’s blood boils, his legs wobble, and his heart’s in his throat.

“I would have understood,” Dorian finishes in a sigh, flat and brisk, and Cullen’s frown hardens, tenses, wired and glum, and he catches on what he might have missed, his father smirking in his grave.

“Tell you what, Dorian?” he asks, raw, and he grits his teeth and he trembles, but Dorian’s gaze slides off him too easily, low, uncertain, and he thinks his chest might burst open.

“That you didn’t see me…  _us_ , as something more. Simple, really.  _Dorian, you’re quite strapping, but I have no wish to get involved with you_. Easy, yes? But look where we are now, how disgusted you must be. I can’t even begin to imagine what you—”

He moves, swift, savage,  _beast again_ , and the air is knocked out of Dorian’s lungs as Cullen crushes his bones, a string of incoherent notes tumbling out of his throat. He stills in his arms—Cullen feels his reticence, but he doesn’t let go, holding him, tight, tender, until his resistance melts away and his fingers reach up to the back of his neck, tips soft in the tamed tangle of his blonde curls.

“Cullen…?”

“I never received your letter,” he breathes, and his eyes burn, wide, fingers stiff in his chemise as a chuckle touches his tongue, and it’s gruff, broken, a crisp lament. “It’s safe to assume that you never received mine. All these years I feared that you would never stand the sight of me again and now…”

“What are you saying?”

He sighs, long and deep, his face buried in his neck.

“I… think I’ve loved you from the moment I saw you on the battlefield, before you even stopped to heal my wound. Had I known that my letter would never reach you… I should have told you, the day you said I was the only friend you’d ever had, but I… panicked. I always did when you were near me, I came apart, every time, and I loved every second of it. I never meant to make you believe that I felt otherwise, Dorian, I—”

“ _Stop talking_ ,” he growls, and the sound dies on Cullen’s lips as he finds him, fierce, warm, faces clutched between feverish hands and hearts pounding in unison. The flask’s joined the missives scattered at their feet and it doesn’t matter, not anymore, not with such promises under his touch, the man he’s loved for so long, finally his.

He doesn’t know how long they stay there, holding, clinging, breathing the same sighs and the same relief. He knows only that his lips have grown softer under his own, slow and limp and patient, and they move, fluttering up his cheeks to nuzzle the tears away.

“This marriage might not be so terrible after all,” Dorian’s voice wavers, hoarse and fragile, but he feels his smile against his ear and his arms tighten around him, protective. Possessive. “We have quite a few years to make up for. Six, seven? Perhaps we should remedy this. Now.”

“There’s nothing I want more,” he smiles back, genuine and weak on his knees, and he arches against him, tender, ardent, eager to map the rest of his body.

“Good,” Dorian nods, and his tongue is warm along the shape of his bottom lip, his breath hot. “I suspect there’s quite a few things we should discuss. I suggest we… wait a little longer. Perhaps a few hours?”

Cullen’s shoulders shake with the rumble in his chest, light and content, and he pulls him in, closer still, always closer, loins pressed flush as his mouth hangs open over his. “And I suggest we wait until morning,” he catches his moan, muffled, and he grins and he sighs, hips rolling along with Dorian’s hands down the small of his back.

“Your wish is my command. Lead the way…  _Amatus_.”

And he does, fingers intertwined, running down hallways like a foolish boy, all smiles, and it doesn’t matter, because he knows now, with clear certainty, that his father was indeed wrong all along. It isn’t the absence of fears that makes a great king, nor does it make a great warrior. The capacity to confront them, however, rather than  _running_ , is what makes a fine man, and it’s what he’s become, it’s what  _they’ve_ become.

Together.

 

 

 

\---

 

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